


The Breaking Point

by AlluringMary



Series: Unusual Pairings [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bleeding Effect, Drug Use, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Relationship, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Health Issues, Reader-Insert, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-01-27 15:44:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: The implant works, it has to, it's supposed to.A multi-chaptered fic about Daniel Cross and an inevitably turbulent romance in the mid 2000s -- in between 2002 and 2011. Mainly snapshots from different years.
Relationships: Daniel Cross/Reader
Series: Unusual Pairings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/356318
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Events take place after The Chain & The Fall. I recommend reading those two comics before as they really flesh out Daniel's character. Despite my love for the game, this fiction will not be based on the version of the character in ACIII.

“You haven’t heard? Cross sent those guys to the hospital!”

The bite of food on its way to your mouth should have stilled, waited patiently in the air as the person behind it said something along the lines of, ‘No way!’ but its holder had long since become used to the antics of that crazy bitch of a Master Templar. Instead you hummed as you chewed and the guy sitting in front of you ranted on, delighted to tell the tale. Others around you draw in closer, more than ready to share some gossip about the man. You reflexively shrivel a little, tugging at your ridiculously high collar as the room closes on in.

A slight hush falls over the communal table as the man before you leans in, keeping his voice down to entice more people to listen in, “The guys cornered him, right? Like they needed him for something and they sent those newbies but guess what,” He waits patiently and you internally sag your shoulders and sigh, what’s with the schoolgirl crush, really? “He sent one of them into the wall, he pinned one – I think his name’s Reid – to the floor then he smashed his nose in with his foot!”

A murmur falls over the table with little exclamations here and there, a few laughs and confused ‘why?’ – but the conversation is still ‘supposed’ to be just you two so, in between bites, you find yourself asking, jumpy under the attention, “What happened to the other one?”

“That one tried to run,” The guy picks his fork back up, stabbing his food with the spikes and again, aspirants, recruits and battle-hardened alike lean forward to hear, “He chased him down, took him by the hair and rammed his face into the ground. Doesn’t have much of nose left.”

Excitement once more falls over the crowd just as you’re finished. It doesn’t really entertain to think how bad your boss and leader could snap and murder you in cold blood if you looked at him the wrong way. However, it seemed to be quite the center of discussions among the men, especially outside of Cross’ division. What you wouldn’t give to be out of that crazed man’s hair.

Insane, demented and violent – everything you don’t want in charge of a life and death situation.

The man was fucked up, yes, but these bouts of immense rage were more or less rare. You’d gotten to know him as a level-headed, knowledgeable and sensible person for the first two weeks you’d been put right beneath him before he’d snapped during planning and loudly cursed out another alpha in what you assumed to be Russian, raging and ranting until the rookie almost teared up under the pressure.

You had no idea what he’d said and when you chanced a look at the person next to you, they’d sported the same look of confusion. Ten minutes later, he’d be back to normal, not even truly shaken, but you remembered how shocked you’d been when you learned that same man was also responsible for the Brotherhood’s considerable crippling – that man killed the Mentor for fuck’s sake!

“_Him!?” You’d almost cried out, after he’d been called away and the little congregation had relaxed. The group that had formed around you either feverishly denying it or shaking their heads in wonder._

_A man, slightly balding but with sharp eyes, snorted, “You know a lot of Daniel Cross?”_

“You’re on his team, aren’t you?” That guy asks as you prepare to leave, sweat collecting on your upper lip. You absentmindedly wipe it away. “What’s it like?”

“There’s never a dull moment, I bet,” Some girl says from your left.

Someone else chimes in, “Oh c’mon, I’d go for it.”

Some chuckles follow that bold statement but you keep quiet, quickly getting up and disposing of the tray and quickly exiting the mess hall after a short farewell. The clinical, void absence of smells unnerve you sometimes but when coupled with so many sweating bodies, their implants just barely settling in, it’s difficult to stay in the same room.

It’s a rule here, when it comes to you modern Templars at least, no omega can go off implants. You’re more discreet this way, more forgettable, perfect to blend in then. Accumulating a new scent as you pass by and past total strangers. They can’t track something that’s not really there – that’s the reasoning at least. It might seem unfair and it is, really, but omegas fucking reeked compared to their beta and alpha counterparts. Too noticeable, too permanent.

You’d have to renew it in just two weeks, those blasted things never lasted long, no more than a few weeks or months if it adapted appropriately. You had it put in just three weeks ago too, what a fucking waste of time. There was a permanent scar when it would be cut out then sewn back in and vice-versa for over four years now. The skin was broken so readily and so often you swore it had lost its elasticity. The whole thing was a joke really, especially when you had to have it removed immediately because an omega with a real scent and close to heat was needed and their fancy little spies who spent hours sipping cocktails and skittishly giggling while leaning over bars were too fucking busy.

You’d lead alphas to their demise only by being in their general presence while your body lusted for a baby to grow within. While you hated the impracticality of the damn implant, it was a godsend in its own little way, nothing was worse than being slave to your own cunt and submissive pathetic excuse of a brain.

You hit the call elevator button with more intensity than necessary, growing frustrated and hot under the collar. It was barely autumn and you’d been forced to wear this strange red jumpsuit that had for result to capture in the heat and bathe in your own sweat. You did your best to bring the thing down to expose your neck to the cool air but nothing worked, it was smothering really.

You climbed in and pushed the correct floor number, ignoring the two men already inside, rapidly talking between in some Slavic-sounding language. You leaned back, tuning out the animated conversation and the smells of beta, meat, detergent and the like that ferociously tried to invade your nose and seemed to loom all over. The elevator stopped and the two men stepped out, having encountered no pause or silence during their talk.

The door closed, you pressed a hand to your temple, a little surprised about the heat you encountered. You tried to chalk it off to the ambient heat but it was for naught for when you came to that hasty conclusion, an alpha climbed in on the next floor and you had to stabilize yourself when your first instinct was to reach out and inappropriately feel up a perfect stranger.

You quickly pressed another button, this one leading back downstairs and the woman sent you a strange confused look, “You’re going down?” She asked in a heavy Italian accent and you nodded, clearing your throat.

She made no move to extend a hand or anything so you remained silent and she turned to the doors, clearly wondering ‘what the hell is up with that one’

Confined with a concentrate of alpha pheromones was not the way to go when an omega like yourself was fighting the urge to preen and show off their neck in hopes of a solid hand clamping own on the back of it, in doing so rendering you completely at their mercy, pliant and willing under that heavy clasp. You’d writhe and twist… Oh, God, that wasn’t good at all.

The elevator once more came to a stop, another alpha stepped in, pressing his own floor as the doors closed. The scents entangled, drawing out the more dominating aspects of the both of them. Together, they worked you up more and more, your breathing quickening and your stomach twisting.

“Are you alright?” The newcomer asked, looking up from a folder. He loudly sniffed the air and drew the other alpha’s attention who proceeded to do the same by instinct.

“Ooh, you poor thing,” Immediately, his tone changed from semi-curious to this honeyed baby-talk babble. Some part of you tried to remember you hated this, despised it even. Especially when you’re being treated like a little child during this period, “It’s alright.”

“Hey, now,” The woman began, putting a hand of the man’s shoulder to stop him from advancing upon you, “She needs help.”

He shrugged it off indignantly, “What’s it with you?” He loudly responded, voice bouncing back in the elevator. You watched, eyes slowly blinking and head starting to turn as the two verbally fought, matching each other by the volume of their shouts. You did little more than cower near the doors, hoping for the damn thing to stop in the near future.

As they fought it out, the elevator climbed up and up again and the second those doors opened again, you ran out, bumping into the person looking to come in. You did try and get a sorry out of your mouth but a hurried mumble of letters came out. You made for the stairs, examined the number on the wall – you had seven floors to go down and then you’d be there – and ran down quickly as you felt yourself clench around nothing and your insides melting into a puddle of warmth, bearing down heavily on your mind. There were three infirmaries in the building, one which served more as a lab and another that was ready for heavy duty surgery – where the three poor bastards who’d been assigned to herd Cross somewhere had most likely ended up. Only one had the proper equipment to take care of the omegan implants and possessed the fever rooms where you’d be tasked to fend for yourself with the provided accessories until the heat subsided and you’d be free to go.

That was a _big_ no no. You were scheduled for duty in the following days and this would ruin _every__th__ing_. Still, you had to, it wouldn’t fly well if you were found some odd days later--

A stench fell upon you then, not as much as it smelled horribly but more along the lines of thick, inescapable miasma. And, oh, you knew that miasma or rather who it belonged to – how many times had you drudged up and down during outer missions while having to bare it? – How many times had the Master Templar swooped down on the nearest willing beta and alpha in your team or any locals close at hand?

It grew tiring at one point, even more so when the bastard would go and inspect each and everyone of you, snapping and hurling things whenever he found something amiss. It was an exercise in futility – it was just a way for him to scream in your faces and deal with his abundance of hormones when you two omegas on his team couldn’t reciprocate the urge, odorless and unresponsive as you were.

And as all of those who made up his branch, you were to remain blank-faced, out of his hair until his rut passed and he became slightly less of an unstable fucker.

Still, as the overbearing smell invaded the stairwell, you froze, hearing distantly a door above you closing. Silence followed, ugly and disturbing before thunderous steps echoed in the stairwell. You took perhaps one step down before you were falling down, skipping steps, having to break your fall with your arms and ended up hitting the wall. You lamely slid off it, looking for your assailant with wide shocked eyes. You hadn’t fallen, you realized as you pained to get your feet underneath you, the alpha responsible for the overpowering smell had _pushed _you.

You managed to look up in time to see Cross – of course, there was no reason to doubt who had just assaulted you, of course it would be Daniel fucking Cross – jump down the remaining steps and menacingly and purposefully walk towards you. You lifted your hands as a mean of defense they were swatted away by a single one.

You hadn’t the time to get up when firm hands took a hold of you and did the job for you – bunching his hands in the front of your jumpsuit and lifting you up. He was the origin of that miasma seducing your ridiculous hormones, forcing his rut upon you. You looked up at him as he looked down at you and while you’d never expected a ‘sorry’ to ever leave this man’s mouth, it hurt you to see such a pure look of lust and nothing else. You had thought of how he’d treat the occasional omegas that came his way, you’d been made privy while gearing up or resting with teammates how he’d acted towards those betas he’d taken for the day – the man was as sane and balanced as you were an assassin.

He’d just pushed you down the stairs for God’s sake, <strike>it may have been just the </strike><strike>four</strike><strike> last steps but it still was cause for concern</strike>.

And thus, when his grip tightened and you saw him take deep breaths to take in your scent better, smiling wildly as he did so, you weakly and very much frighteningly implored, “M-- Master, please. Not… Not like this.”

You thought you’d managed to partially convince him but after a few blinks of his eyes, his expression hardened and he sent you careening down to the floor.

You understood a little more about those three other guys, how they must have felt knowing they’d been decimated in the face of pure madness, why one had decided to run despite his instincts warning him not to.

A heavy boot settled on your chest, pinning you down to the ground. You vainly tried to pry it off, setting your feet down to the ground and pushing but all he had to do was lean over and put his weight on his leg for you to cry out, feeling your ribs beneath your skin weeping. The heel of his boot pressed right in between your breasts, the tip pressing into your collarbone, forcing you to take in small but numerous intakes of breath from both your nose and mouth and thus growing more and more hypnotized by the smell he gave off. You didn’t notice when you had loosely wrapped your hands around his ankle or when you stopped trying to get to a sitting position and instead started rubbing your thighs together, mewling under the attention.

Cross lifted his foot and before you could get on your knees, he was pushing you back down, finding the zippers and openings of the jumpsuit while he wrestled with his own clothes.

While doing so, his lips found yours. You couldn’t consider it a proper kiss, so hard and hungry it was. It was strangely familiar to two animals surviving off each other, needing the contact but if possible, would gladly rid themselves of the other. Still, amorous noises emitted from both of you, both entranced in the other or at least in their touch and smell.

Mutualism really was a fascinating thing.

He quickly bypassed your throat, somehow not that interested and came to leave bites and licks over your breasts and nipples, taking them in his mouth when they hardened. Even in what you’d expect to be a delicate action, it was still forceful, hurried with this unshakable feeling he could hurt you at any point in time if he so wished. His hands kept wandering however, stripping you off your underwear and spreading your thighs, more than ready to force his way in. A more primal, base, part of you is delighted by this even as your leg kicks out in urgency when he slots himself between your thighs.

You reflexively hit him in the side, not truly disengaging him – you even think that excites him by the groans he makes when he flattens your offending leg with a resounding slap out and bends down to bite down on the inside of it, keeping a firm hold on the other when you futilely try to fight back.

“Please,” You say, repeating it over and over again, “Please,” Only stopping when he drops your legs and instead shoves his fingers inside of you, quickly and furiously, so easy while you’re so deeply into your heat. You gasp and beg while a litany of ‘Come on! Yes!’ comes and goes. You moan and twitch under the new attention, back arching off the ground, hands digging into the carpeted floor and still, he calls you demeaning names, laughs at the way you squeal and jump when his hand comes down on your skin.

You thrust back into his hand, huffing and puffing, he says excitedly, “You’re asking for it, begging for it.” The only answer he gets is little more than pleasured noises but that seems to suit him just fine, “Does it feel good?” Again, you respond with only noises and little gasps as he inserts another one, his thumb now slowly rotating on your clit. When your moans get louder and lower, he asks again, “Does it!?”

Without leaving you time to respond, Cross suddenly get his fingers out harshly and rapidly, tearing a shocked gasp from your lips. He takes his time taking in the sight of your slick on his fingers, your breathless gasps as you come to calm your breathing, frustrated to have been taken away from the verge of an orgasm. You both watch as he slowly, surprisingly so, brings his wet fingers to himself and uses it to ease his hand as it goes up and down his shaft. A little thick, moderate length and adorned with small curly blond hair at the base.

You willingly scoot closer, this time desperate for more, sliding your leg up his hip to ease the process. You’re hyper aware, every little things being multiplied, amplified. You can feel the coarse fabric of the carpet scratching your shoulder blades, the heat of his skin against the back your knee, the sheen of sweat on your skin…

“What do you want then?” The alpha asks even as his other hand comes to fondle your breast, “Did you change your mind?” He sharply pinches your nipple, twisting in his fingers, letting out a hoarse short laugh when you wince, “Answer me.”

“Please,” You repeat, this time the word bearing a different meaning entirely, “Please, please!”

“You’re always so quiet, always so fucking...” He goes on, languidly rubbing the head of his cock against your cunt, “Always that superior fucking air on your face. I’m gonna fuck it out of you, is that what you want?”

“Yes, please, yes,” You babble, unable to compute and to decide on a decent answer with you deep into your heat already, “Please, do it, please.”

He doesn’t deign to respond to you, only jerking your hips towards his lap. You’d have expected some more brutality like he was so rumored to act but Cross was almost delicate this time, thrusting in a thick long line, never halting once until he was flush against you. It felt glorious and once more, those wanton noises escaped your lips as you felt every inch, every veins, every curve.

“Fuck,” His hands flattened on the floor on each sides of your head, “Fuck!” He pressed against every little nerve your kind had been blessed with, forcing you to clench around him as he shifted and ground to get into a more stable position.

You’d tried to reach for his neck to do something with your hands, to force him closer, closer, tighter but his thrusting was so sudden, you let hem fall back down.

You squirmed some more, hoping for more friction and he almost growled, a deep guttural sound form his throat pouring out. He fisted the fabric of your jumpsuit he’d thrown to the side before and bunched it up under your hips, placing him at an angle where the alpha could easily bottom out tearing more and more groans from the both of you.

Now that was what you’d expected, the fast rough pace, heavy chest pressing down on yours, small, short breaths. Every inch of your skin was burning hot, hurting and aching where it rubbed against the carpet and sweating and smoldering where your two bodies met.

Only then did he halt his thrusts, quickly readjusting himself and your legs higher up his waist before leaning down until his nose was buried in your neck, his hot jagged breaths against your throat making you shiver. Cross became increasingly violent, hand wrapping around your throat and squeezing tight when you helplessly scooted back under the force of his thrusts.

Static built up inside you, growing tenser and stronger the more he labored over you, striking blue eyes lost somewhere between your eyes and mouth. You could hear the words he spoke, could see his mouth moving but all came back muddy, indecipherable.

You felt it coming, desperately clinging to the same hand choking you and his lower back as each of your breaths come out as squeals. It finally shatters, exploding and making you cry out, tensing and clenching around Cross.

In turn he curses, sweat accumulating on his brow and shoulders, as he pounds into you. His thrusts grow shorter and rougher and he finally tenses, grinding against your hips, a pinched expression on his face – eyes closed, lips drawn.

You can feel it, the base of him pressuring you to expand. You haven’t taken one in years, much before you’d even joined the Order. Now you wonder how you even managed without it, if it ever felt as pleasurable and satisfying as it is now, heavy and sating as the knot rests inside of you, steadily growing.

//

You came back to, still tied to the maniacal alpha who, as the psycho that he was, watched with rapt attention as you shook yourself awake, only ever reacting when you tried to stretch your arms and accidentally – you swear, it was an accident! – tugged on the knot that ensured you stayed locked up in this weird side to side, face to face position. Your thigh had gone numb when his body weighed down on it. It thankfully prompted him to move.

Still, You could feel the warmth of your heat bearing down, having briefly dissipated because of none other than Cross who still apart from the harsh exclamation and solid glare from some minutes ago still hadn’t said one proper word.

It took you a moment but then, after getting your bearings and understanding where you still were, a cloud of immense shame drew up over you, “We’re still in the stairwell, aren’t we?”

“Don’t worry,” He actually looked calm despite all of this shit piling up, even smiled a little, “Someone already saw us.”

You stayed silent for a minute, processing his strange humor before spluttering, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that ‘don’t worry’ when half of the order knows what my ass looks like by now!?”

You’d never seen the man in any other scenarios than getting ready to take over assassin camps, settling your own strongholds over the world, training and of course those motivational speeches you ought to listen to every week or so. The point is you’d only ever known Cross to either be serious, focused or flying into a rage. You’d never seen him 1) smiling amiably, 2) laughing, 3) making jokes.

And you’d witnessed all of these actions in just two seconds after having fucked him.

“I don’t think it’s your ass she was ogling, really. Why would she when I’m right here?”

As soon as you were freed, you hastily put your clothes on, this time zipping that disgusting jumpsuit all the way up until it seemed to dig into your trachea. You racked your brains for a polite way of saying, ‘well that was clearly assault but I’ll just fuck off then! hope you’ll do the same! see ya on Monday!’ but your superior – your fucking superior, <strike>haha</strike> – marched down the stairs and once after noticing you weren’t following him, threw over his shoulder, “What are you waiting for?”

It’d been just half past one when you’d left the gossiping recruits, now as your eyes snapped to the wristwatch hanging from his hand that it was a little before three in the afternoon.

He stopped three floors too early, bullying you into his quarters – apparently you wouldn't finish your heat in the fever room with a weighted blanket and pressure collar. It came as evident to him and stared back at you when you explained the situation.

“You’d rather fuck yourself on a plastic toy?” He’d spat out, getting frustrated, “Like some fucking animal?”

Okay, now there’s no need for that.

You tried to placate, hands drawing up in surrender, hurriedly saying, “Sir, we’re supposed to be in Quebec in two days, heats like that last at least three or more. It just made more sense with you needed elsewhere...”

He’d come to stand directly in front of you, tugging at the front of your clothes, standing so tall and so close. The ache inside of you and the wetness on the inside of your thighs coupled with his voice made you swoon, heat collecting in your cheeks, “It makes more sense if I say it does.” He closed his hand on the back of your neck, smirking when your body instantly relaxed and leaned into him. “You understand?”

You had to swallow a couple times to ensure you wouldn’t slobber all over yourself before breathing out a feeble, “Yes.”

//

The days pass quickly, in between screwing, eating, sleeping, lazing about and more sex while attempting to shower – there’s really no way to tell how long has passed when you’re unwilling and unmotivated to do be anywhere too far from Daniel.

The telltale confusion and forgetfulness of the heat make you sometimes unresponsive, even lost. You’ll remember stepping into the bathroom and then realize you’re halfway on the couch, head settled against a cushion, white leather pinching at the skin of your elbows, your already abused knees weeping from the burn of the floor and the weight of the man pressing down on you.

Speaking of which, he only ever went ballistic twice and by that you mean he talked to you in Russian in this pressing and borderline mortified voice when you very nearly burned the bottom of the pan in an impromptu cooking attempt – the second time, you’d been groggily waking up, ready to complain about your dry throat when he began a long monologue in that blasted language, poking and pinching at your skin when you’d respond in English. He’d become more and more agitated, to the point you had to restrain his offending hands if you wanted to have any skin left on your bones. He didn’t let up for five long minutes which concluded with him stomping off in a huff and you questioning the life choices that had brought you here.

Apart from all of this, he seems in good shape although he’s spent a lot of time at his computer or on his cellphone – you’re pretty sure he talks to himself too. The descriptions on the pill bottles on the nightstand and the number of them in the bathroom are far from reassuring but you’re willing to assume they help more than they hurt him.

Thankfully that had happened on the last day of your heat so you’d spent a quick hour showering (this time alone), eating breakfast (at noon), awkward (only on your part it seemed) farewells and you’re booking it down the hall, avoiding or at at the very least trying to ignore the curious and astonished stares of the crowd milling about. You steer clear of the elevators, instead choosing to go down those down three flights of stairs you’d been driven off from three days ago and finally reach the infirmary.

You pretended not to notice the scent left behind.

The doctor took one sniff and look at you and sighed, grumbling under her breath as she shooed you into one of the free examination rooms. You stayed rooted, sitting on the table and waited, waited and waited as the thin sheet of paper rustled under you.

During this interminable wait, you’re slightly more aware that your scent had yet to go back to normal yet, Daniel’s – _when the fuck did that happen? When did you get comfortable putting a name other than ‘crazy bitch’ and ‘master’ on the guy?_ – scent still clings to your skin, hair, clothing. Maybe you should have taken another shower. In your own room. Put on new clothes.

Yes. You’ll do just that.

Anything to get rid of _his_ scent.

//

Once your implant was replaced, you didn’t have much purpose left and so you wandered a little around before making it to your room where your kinda neighbor jumped you.

“You’re alive!” He’d almost screamed, a grin breaking on his face, “We though you’d been dumped somewhere, damn. What happened? People said you were with Cross.”

“I was,” You admit, although not saying anything more, “That’s all you need to know.”

It’s like fucking owls have materialized in your general vicinity, blinking wide eyes and flaring nostrils when they get wind of you resurfacing. You’ve washed off most the scent, even shampooed and conditioned your hair and swapped clothes that had stayed on the bottom of your bag for some time now. A jumble of autumn-summer clothes that will do, they have to, until your ugly jumpsuit has been properly washed and rid of all… fluids.

You’re caught in the hall when you decide you’ll have to eat something and make for the mess hall. Some beta with a silver plate indicating Dr glints just so that you can’t catch read his name without straining your eye and seeming impolite so you look back in his eyes and shake his hand when he extends it. You wonder what the hell he wants from you, you only share the elevator with those guys, the suits and docs you mean.

They give you the implant, makes sure you’re fit for duty and you make sure you stay out of their way when they need to get somewhere. Really he has no business being here as harsh at it sounds, your branch is located here and the only persons you directly answer to are Cross and another Templar leader who you’ve seen perhaps twice in the four years you’ve spent here.

“Doctor,” You greet first, polite, light, “How may I help you?”

“By relaxing perhaps?” He laughs a little and you do your best to not let your shoulders sag too quickly, “I hope I am not bothering you, I have a request. A simple thing really.”

The request, as it turns out, is not about fetching something from or for the Grand Master or adventuring into Cross’ quarters to go look for him and perhaps not get mauled – no. It’s about the Animus.

You both look down at the glowing machine, you more guarded than Dr. Vidic who goes on and on and on about the potential behind it all. A woman with a clipboard stays behind, poised and head held up high as you three stand there.

“I suppose I can give it a go,” You let out after it’s clear he’s not going to shut up unless you jump in, “Could be fun,” You even add, although clearly sheepish.

“Splendid!” He turns to the woman who starts busying herself with the monitor on the machine’s side.

You’re laid out on it, the crook of your elbow pricked with a syringe after a polite “This might sting a little,” and your blood pumped into the Animus. A screen slides over your face, blinking bright blue as a double helix leisurely spins on itself.

“Your past is a little blurry, it might take a bit of time to locate any distinct memory,”

The lights shine bright and you find yourself – _horrid,__ terrible, sick and b__ile__ around you, on your sleeves and apron. The hospital is overrun, not only by humans but the rats, the stench, the infections. __You hurry yourselves around the Lady with the Lamp __as the men call her__, __clamoring when more and more sick arrive, __coughing and screaming, crying and praying. __Another dies __as you wipe his brow, more bleed out when you change their dressings, __pu__ss_ _staining__ all and everything._

_ Death, death, death, death, death._

You sit up, gasping in alarm. The room is empty, quiet. A monitor beeps next to you, beat speeding and staggering the quicker your heat beats.

Vidic comes by a few hours later when you fail to successfully empty your stomach, sputtering and grasping for words. That was a good start apparently, good but halted somewhat. Need more decisive samples, he loses this excited and polite facade when he thinks you’re too busy with that steel basin held over your bed for you.

You refuse any food they try to shove down your throat, your stomach far from being settled.

You’re guided back to the living space in your section and the nurse leaves with a meek goodbye, skirting around like you’ll pounce on her any minute. You sip lukewarm tea left in the communal pot, watch through he windows as passersby the size of ants go about their business, at their own pace, with their own stroke, own flow, unaware of the danger lurking inside the tower they walk by on their way to work, back home or during their morning jogs.

You do eventually fall into bed, twisting and turning as if healing from a rancid wound, sweating from your every pores as you think about that woman, the English nurse. Pleading and crying for the dead to stop piling up, stop festering, stop arriving even as Nightingale kept a cool head throughout and disciplined her.

When the memories that aren’t even your own start to be too much, you resign yourself and get under the scalding spray of the shower. It’s tough, tougher than you’d expected, tougher than you’d been made aware of.

You though back about Vidic’s smile dropping when you’d seemed to be too busy retching to focus on him, how he’d lied throughout.

//

The knocks come down hard and fast, voices on the other side of the door accompanying the person’s fist as they brought it down, again and again. You didn’t have much time to react while the hinges groaned and complained with shrill creaking noises, “Open the door!” Came the voice, muffled by the heavy fire-proof door barricading you from the person on the other side. You fail to recognize the person’s voice but can make out the words, although really distorted.

You may not know this person, is opening the door to them such a good idea?

Lacking a peep hole, you really have no idea what awaits you on the other side, only that they’re violent and other people are with them, either placating them or egging them on.

“Who is it?”

//

He grabs your arms, his fingers creating divots in the skin where he tightens his grip. He twists it into an awkward angle and you immediately try to kick back, receiving only a fist to your abdomen for your trouble, depraving you of breath enough for Cross to bring your elbow to his face, pushing at the newly stitched skin. You’ve already been lowered to the ground then, one arm taken away and the other pressing down where he’d punched you. Your legs are useless from underneath his own, pinned down by his weight just like he’d placated you to the ground just three days ago, breath growing short and pained.

You can almost feel the implant, nestled right against your ulnar nerve, move under his prying fingers. He’s yelling; somehow still having the energy to despite having been wrestling with you. The others are standing outside, not knowing what to do, having been commanded to stand aside even when you asked for help at least twice.

And really, nobody wants to get in Cross’ way. He sent three guys to the hospital, haven’t you heard?

He pinches at the stitches and you panic, at least more than you did before, “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! I… Don’t!” You plead, still reeling from the hit and now knowing full well you can’t fight him off, “Please, please, don’t.” He stops his motions but is still going on and on in Russian, never once halting his words until they taper off on their own, swapping more and more words to English until they too stop piling up.

“Take it out,” He orders, his eyes swimming and tone shaking and as afterthought, turns to the open door, basking the room in the feeble yellow light of the hall. They’re still there, staring, gasping, murmuring but all of them are witnesses to the grand spectacle you’ve been made apart of.

“Get out,” He said and as soon as the words had felt his mouth, they all filed out, one brave soul stepping in to close the door as he went. The room fell into darkness, your heartbeat getting faster and faster as you made out his face in the dark.

As the silence grew uglier, he made not a single move but still kept a strong grip around your arm, fingers on the newly sewn tissue.

“I…,” You started weakly, breathing and out, willing the pain and fear to disperse even as your predicament didn’t seem to improve in the slightest, “I can’t take this out like this, but-!” You placated a hand on his own when he leaned into you, “But I can have it taken care of. Later.”

“I can’t smell you.” He admits when you think you’ll have to intervene once again, “You’re nowhere.” He leans in some more, nose settling your inner wrist and slowly and steadily breathing against the skin, “You’re nowhere.”

“I am here,” You retort, regretting the urgency in your tone when he tenses, “I’m right here.”

In the past week, things have taken a sharp turn for the worst.

First you’ve been assaulted, both physically and sexually by the same man who was your boss, the same man who’d get lost into visions and memories not his own over the slightest thing. You still tried to chalk it off to his rut, to your heat but you remembered the look on his face when you’d first said no, the weight of him when you’d been pinned down and forced to take in the scent.

Cross also spent countless hours in the Animus – every few days, he’d get put in for at least a few hours and he’d either come back a little refreshed or his mood soured and eyes lost in the void.

The latter happened the most.

In any case, you’re now restricted to deployments outside of major cities, megalopolises and the like. There’s no stealth either now and don’t even think about seduction or mingling in with people, there’s no more of that either.

It’s common for both Templars and Assassins born as this cursed secondary gender and paired with an alpha to ‘retire’ and not expose themselves again. You’ll never stop training or following your leader’s orders but you can’t simply keep off your implant and pretend everything is normal – you’d leave a perfect scent trail to follow on every person you’d brush up against, every surface you’d happen to touch. You’d also become an obvious target, sticking out like this.

The morning after you’d had the damn thing removed, you’d been officially demoted to Delta team 3 instead of 1. You still belonged to Cross’ branch – at least someone was having a grand ol’ time – but all you could do now was shoot a gun and stand behind. Fucking bullshit. Speaking of which, now you’re on birth control, something that you’d dreaded for years now. Who knew what kind of shit these pills would do to your poor defenseless body… Not that this fucking implant hadn’t done anything to your reproductive system anyway.

It didn’t matter if you had or hadn’t entertained the thoughts of having children one day, it was simply a matter of principle.

But truly what irritated you the most was your sudden obligation to rub shoulders with Daniel while walking on eggshells. You theoretically were still in the possession of your room within the tower but it had been pressed quite explicitly that you’d have to reside with the man who’d basically fucking raped you. You had found so many texts and articles defending the act even past consent, built on this damned alpha/beta/omega hierarchy. You’re on the bottom of the food chain.

Even with their grand promises and preaches of progress, the order still sees you as the womb, the bed wench, the one you come back to at the end of the day, the receptacle for all of this world’s woes and misery.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the immediate days after the events of chapter 1, early 2000's
> 
> The reader's a bad liar and Daniel's a mess but what's new

Finding sleep is hard. The sheets reek of past sex, the pillow underneath your cheek is tough and thinner than you’re used to, the heat of the person laying along side you is disturbing. You’re not used to sharing a bed, much less with a coked-up alpha.  
You can hear his slow breathing, the distant rhythmic clicks of a clock. The smell is near unbearable, the miasma not only permeating the bedspread but now sticking to your skin. The skin on the inside of your elbow burns, it pulls and itches under the wrappings. God knows how many times you’ve had to fight your own or his hand off them.

There’s movement behind you and you’re stalled in your observations. Skin slides against the cloth of the covers, a faint sigh reaches you. A weight settles against the back of your calf, the distinct feeling of something caught in your throat surfaces.  
You can hardly believe this asshole’s dead to the world, he’s probably staring a hole in the back of your head. He has to be awake, he’s not that far gone that he’d fall asleep so easily around you.

This is the first time you have shared a bed with Cross and everything feels wrong.

The phantoms of his hands dance upon your thighs, with every twitch of your legs, you can almost feel the impact of his palm. The skin of your shoulders and knees weep with every single movements of your arms, the ointment you’d put on earlier for the rug burns is sticky still. Sweat collects on your brow, nose, neck, the ointment causing heat to accumulate along your skin.

A dulling pain from your chest almost drives you over the edge, you’d seen the skin turning a ghastly color where his foot had pressed down. You gnash your teeth, focusing on calming your breathing and ignoring the alpha. Yet what does set you off is another turn of the man, the telltale shuffle of sheets and, infuriatingly, the weight once brushing against your leg now stretches all the way to the back of your thighs.

There’s no chance to repress the nervous shudder that follows suit. You can see his crazed eyes again, feel the hands bunched into your clothes. Somehow, you find the inner strength not to rip yourself away and instead slither out from under the sheets. You’ve been sweating for nearly an hour, your shirt sticks to your wet skin, your can feel the hair at the nape of your neck standing up and curling because of the heat.

Making as little noise as possible, you get into the bathroom, wincing at what you see in the mirror once you turn the lights on. What a fucking mess. You’re tired, all you’d want is sleep after the Animus, the three day long heat, <strike>the upheaval of everything you’ve known and built in the past years.</strike> You run water form the faucet, rubbing at your face and neck.

The heat’s getting to you, your realize when the cool water manages to soothe you. You think you spend a few minutes wetting your skin and peeling off your shirt. Silently you get out of the bathroom, dress quickly in the dark, determining what clothes you stumble upon by feel only.

Once in a while, you chance glances at Cross who’s either crazy enough to sleep like a fucking baby or doing an insanely great job at pretending. God you fucking hate how seamlessly he took to the change, hate how sadistic that son of a bitch is and how he hides it so well under this facade of Animus-induced bullshit.

It’s only when you head for the stairs, shoes in hand, when he speaks, “Where—?” Such a great actor he is, he sounds like he’s just been woken from deep sleep. He clears his throat, you halt in your step. “Where are you going?”

Frankly you had no clue but you had a vague idea. “Out.” There’s no need to be precise, you don’t owe it to him – the lessening pain radiating through your abdomen where he’d punched you burns harshly all of a sudden, a painful reminder of his attachment. You add then, “Just for a run.”

You don’t think he can make out your leggings and shirt in the dark, you equally can’t tell if he’s on the brink of another crisis. The lack of answer drives the primal feeling of fear into resurfacing but you refrain yourself from running down the stairs like some skittish animal.

“I’ll be back soon.”

This time, not waiting for an answer from the darkness, you climb down the stairs, only stopping to slip on your shoes. The halls are mostly empty at this time of day, still during your climb downstairs you do meet the odd soul roaming about. There’s more people you’d expected at the inner gym from the 15th floor. It’s no matter, the heat is unrelenting, it’s best to go outside and get some fresh air.

The put-upon guards at the doors pin you with practiced glares, you have half the mind to snap at the pair but instead flash your badge you’d stashed away in your pocket. The alpha of the pair makes a show of looking it over, even has the nerve to snatch it from your hand and hold it to your face for ‘safety reasons’. The gate finally opens and your badge is returned – the air outside’s stale.

It carries only bits of scents and smells. And thankfully not an ounce of those indicate sex in any way. You walk away from the tower with a tremor in your hands, some puerile part of your leftover primate brain hesitant to leave the nest so soon. You don’t smell or feel the underlying signs of heat, you force yourself to walk further, ignoring other passerby and clusters of people talking outside.  
Jogging or anything quicker than a walk sounds regrettably unappealing, you don’t think you’d be able to without your earphones anyway. Walking further into the night calms you somewhat, you focus on the burn in your thighs and the sweat collecting on your skin rather than the thousands of bruises and wounds over your body.

Once back inside the tower after the better part of an hour spent outside, you silently creep into the dark apartment. The mezzanine above is silent, does this man even snore? The crisp autumn air’s been quite unkind to you but you’ve still managed sweat through your shirt—there’s still no appeal in going back to lay in the same bed as Cross.

After a shower, your skin is cool to the touch which makes the prospect of laying back into the warmth of the bed bearable at the very least.

Once at the foot of the bed, you can’t believe your eyes. The alpha is sprawled like some malformed octopus on every inch of it, he’s even drooling on your side to add salt to the injury. The leather couches from the living room might make a decent bed it it weren’t for the fact you’ve also been bent over them less than a day ago and that the material would stick to your skin the second you’d lay down.

You don’t think his short blond hair should be called ‘tousled’ but that’s what it looks like, spread over two pillows. He doesn’t as much snore as breathe loudly with his mouth open and he’s drooling on himself and a fair amount of the covers. The bastard doesn’t even have the advantage of looking angelic or innocent for that matter, he’s just asleep. He’s still just that, a bastard. Albeit an asleep bastard.  
Your designated pillow is partly pinned under his chest, the bedspread is a clumped mess near his gaping mouth, it’s starting to get harder to think the man’s responsible for the purge of this day and age’s Assassin’s creed. He does have the unstable factor on his side so…

With a nudge – which to be fair, has too much strength behind it to be truly considered a nudge – to his elbow, he gracelessly retracts it, turning over himself to get away from the onslaught. You’re able to reclaim enough surface to sleep on once you swat and prod at him enough that he stretches towards his own damned fucking side of the bed. Is he awake? Who knows, who cares. Surely not you.  
He’s been moaning through the entire process, not quite grumbling but definitely complaining in a lazy and mumbled speech you don’t care enough to pretend to listen to. When he realizes it’s over, he slumps once more into a boneless form, testing how far he can spread himself out.

Back in bed, it’s a nightmare to keep him from encroaching on your space while toeing on the ever thinning line of sleep. On one hand, if this son of a bitch throws his arm over your back one more time, you’ll have to punch him in the eye but if you do so, he’ll wake up and you’ll have to deal with the ensuing consequences of a furious violence-inclined man.

You don’t find sleep for hours, caught in this impromptu battle for personal space. However the worst part of this arrangement is the primitive, cave-dwelling piece of you who preens under the unconscious attention it receives.

* * *

The next nights mirror the first one. When Cross is starting to fall asleep and stretches over to your side, it’s time for your late night walk. He always asks still, when you start climbing down towards the door.

Where are you going? He always receives the same answer from you, what the fuck is his deal?

A week passes by at a crawling pace, you’re about ready to rip your hair out if he asks you again that same stupid question. Tonight however, you’re stopped dead in your tracks when light floods the mezzanine. Cross has turned on the lights and they shine golden light on the orange medicine bottles and charging phone on his bedside table. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed instead of underneath the covers. Your gaze travels to his face – his pinched lips and eyes betray the frustration he tries to pass off as curiosity when he speaks, “What are you doing?”

You feel your stomach turn, throw your earphones around your neck to have something to do with your hands. It at least gives the illusion of composure. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’ll see you then.”

“Where are you even—” He cuts himself off, getting up instead. You feel boxed in, eyes snapping towards the stairwell leading down. Cross notices, his brow knots and his tone grows biting. “Why do you never answer me?”

“I told you I was going outside, Ma— Daniel.” You wince inwardly at that rookie mistake, he catches onto it like a bird of prey, staring you down. You have to lie and you have to make it good, you can’t just insult him to his face and tell him to get off your dick.

“I’m sorry,” You act coy as best as you can, detached even. “I can’t sleep—” He closes his eyes, runs a hand across his face. He’s not fucking buying it. “I just need to tire myself out first. Didn’t know it affected you that much.”

He shakes his head. There’s a quick and unrelenting pounding in your chest, it grows even faster with his sudden exclamation. “черт возьми!" Whatever the fuck that means, it doesn’t sound good. “You’re a terrible liar.”

In you humble opinion, lying had been a better alternative to the truth. Still, it doesn’t bring forth a proper response from you.

“I don’t get what your deal is.” Cross starts again, “I’m trying to make this work, I’ve pushed back that fucking Montreal affair, I’ve been giving you space – you had enough time to talk with the unit even!”

He’s furious, it’s time to double the fuck down or whimper for forgiveness. Your aunt had always vilified your habit of shooting off at the mouth and relying on petty lies to get out of sticky situations. And frankly you’re way too proud to simply roll over just yet. <strike>Even if you can feel panic climbing up your throat.</strike>

“I’ve never— I’ve never slept with an alpha before, it’s still strange to me and I didn’t want to tell Sung or you because I knew you’d make a big deal out of it!” Cross is taken aback, good. You solider on, now evading his gaze. Your features aren’t as hard as they could be, your words aren’t as harsh. “I’ve only ever… been with betas. It’s not that I don’t like it, I... I don’t know if it was the implant but I can’t deal with this yet.”

Needless to say, your first time had been with an alpha but he clearly didn’t know nor need to know for that matter. You’d milk every ounce of omegan bashfulness at your disposal if given the chance. God only knew it was a nice advantage with those fucking knotheads.

And what kind of alpha doesn’t want to play Prince Charming to a poor little damaged omega?

“I...” He stops, shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” You’d expected him to puff his chest, pride himself of a job well done (hey, you don’t deflower an omega everyday!), do anything but play demure and avoid looking you in the eye. Cross has actually gone pale. “I didn’t, huh, know... Obviously.”

The silence that gathers then and there is abominable. It’s only ever broken when you slowly start down the stairs and get out of the apartment.

* * *

The cycle continues for another two weeks. You live both your lives on opposite ends of a spectrum only sometimes reuniting at night. It’s become clear there’s a divide between the two of you but you’ll be damned if you talk about it. Most nights he doesn’t show and you have no clue what he does or if he even sleeps – you hate to admit it but… you feel rather guilty now. It gradually eats at you, and the repercussions of the nest being left empty makes you miserable.  
His shrink won’t tell you shit, the medic on your unit (some dick with bad breath) is getting on your nerves, he tries to get a rise out of you any chance he can get. And there is still no way for you to move out from Cross’ flat without risking a repeat performance of the assault in your room.

It’s so fucked honestly.

You see him most of the time by complete strokes of luck, in the hallways, the courtyard, even outside on the plaza. After five days without seeing him once, you encounter him in the labs when Vidic insists on using you as a little lab rat. Even then, it’s a tall order to pry more than a detached ‘hello’ from him. His face is drawn, his eyes look red and he smells… off. Not like another person – you despise the relief that melts over you – but the scent isn’t his own, it’s synthetic, artificial.

It takes an inhumane amount of strength not to sniff at his clothes like a bloodhound to try and pinpoint what the new smell is, where it originates from. The heat is long gone, but the possessiveness that comes with it lingers still. What a fucking joke.

The doctor notices eventually when the conversation gets strained in between your seething glare and Cross’ unusual jumpiness. You wouldn’t trust the beta with an inch of your life, mind you, but he does try to settle the situation when he jokes, “Ah, young love!” after Cross coughs in his fist for the third time in two minutes.

“It’s common knowledge, Daniel. You two are all my assistant talked about for days, airheads the lot of them.” Vidic bravely pursues when the blond glares at him, “Have you conferred with Sung recently? It isn’t very wise to shirk on your other sessions, son.”

Your glare turns into a bemused expression, a raised eyebrow complimenting your inquisitive look. ‘Other sessions? Son?’ Well, this is getting interesting. Cross’ gaze flickers urgently between the both of you, a waft of his natural scent surfaces, he’s getting agitated.

“I guess I’ll see you later?” You ask innocently, very much hinting that he should take the out you so generously offered him. It’s the first time you’ve spoken directly to him since some days ago (and you do take into account the awkward hey he’d thrown you about six days in the courtyard). You were worried before but now this is getting out of hand – that lie wasn’t that grave. What the fuck is his issue?

By God, he looks like a deer caught in the headlights. You may have overdone it with that alpha-virginity lie to be honest. “Right, yeah. I’ll swing by Dr. Sung’s office later, it’s alright.” His eyes slide to you, briefly, instead settling on an invisible point above your shoulder. You feel a tick of frustration, not only at him but at Vidic who stays planted there, either not reading the room or getting off on being an intrusive pain in your ass.

He leaves, proverbial tail in between his legs and you proceed into the labs, the strange unfamiliar scent continuously plaguing your mind up to the point the screen is lowered over your face. 

Even occasionally meeting during deployments is getting rarer, he’s solely focusing on solo operations. He’d never been that involved in the Inner Sanctum beforehand and you’re torn by the fact you actually succeeded in pushing him away, it’s fascinating how your actions have consequences!

You should be glad, you are in a way, but you hadn’t expected the pouring of irritation that the alpha’s detachment would cause. You hate living alone in that flat, hate the gaudy painting of a long-dead Templar that lords over the TV, hate sleeping in the empty bed that has been placed in the middle of the bedroom for no apparent fucking reason, hate the too-large bathtub that you slip in constantly, hate the view from the balcony that plunges so far down, hate the sterile white and red of the flat, hate the echo in the bathroom, hate that the smell of him is getting scarce and volatile around the place, hate the void that’s started forming since you never see him anymore.

You hate that the prospect of his scent disappearing causes you so much fucking pain makes you irrationally angry.

* * *

It starts as soon as he crosses the threshold. Daniel looks haggard, a little worn and the bizarre smell still clings to his skin. Incensed by the invading smell in such close quarters, you jump off the kitchen counter, circle around the dining room table and proceed to round on him.

“Is it your space you want back?” You start, “I’m sorry to tell you but you fucked that up when you showed everyone you couldn’t handle me living away from you.” The beating was still clear in your mind, the pain had seared into your flesh – never to be forgotten. The phantom pressure of his fingers around your sutures would never fully disappear, nor would the subsequent helplessness. “If I do move out, I’d like to be sure you won’t hurt me because of it.”

He had been shaking his head throughout, it was no surprise when he objected. “I don’t want you to move out, you’re the one who can’t stand being in my presence! You needed space and I gave it to you.”

“You spent days in the Animus,” You deadpanned, “I can tell, believe me.” You bit out with far too much anger, “That shit is rotting your brain, you look like you’re halfway into your grave. All I wanted was some distance, not for you to ruin your health because now you’re concerned with my well-being.”

“The fuck are you!?” You were taken aback by the sudden and hateful roar, “My shrink? I don’t want you talking about me like I’m crazy!” His teeth were barred from his anger, his frame tense, his eyes wild. You cowered away from the pheromones he released, the poignant sharp stink of an alpha’s ire. Did he realize what he was doing? – obviously not judging by the way he made no move to advance, instead choosing to stew where he stood still.

You’d expected to be cornered, rounded up on. Not… Not whatever this was, this was wrong. Distressed and out of your mind, you asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Fuck that, tell me what’s wrong with you! One second you want nothing to do with me and the next you want to know what I do at all times of the day? Don’t look at me like that, Sung told me every time you were looking for me and Rothschild is the worst gossiper that ever walked this Earth… I don’t--” He was stopped suddenly, exhaling loudly through his nose, “да что с тобой такое? говорить со мной, ради всего святого!”

“I don’t understand what the fuck you’re saying!” You finally broke, your emotions running frayed and wild. “I don’t know Russian and whatever the fuck this is – it’s not helping!” This entire relationship – if it could even be deemed as one – had been framed as a mutually beneficially arrangement and there you fucking were! “And you stink! You smell weird, like— like— You fucking stink, okay!?”

Oh fucking great, here came the waterworks. As desperately as you clung to your composure, it was impossible to contain the omega within, least of all the submissive side that shrunk away from the strange alpha who didn’t respond properly to its signals. “Can’t you just—!” You whined, itching for a proper reaction from him. “Can’t you just act like you actually give a shit about this!?”

“что ты хочешь, чтобы я сделал? я вас не понимаю!”

“I don’t speak Russian!” You yelled over him, unable to clamp down on your emotions. “Can’t you just stop it!”

He was reeling, pacing up and down the kitchen. The entire flat smelled like you now, the faint hope that it would appease him remained. And yet again the alpha disappointed, opting instead to clutch his head in his hands, harshly muttering under his breath. “заткнись… заткнись… заткнись...”

You sank down into the couch, bitter tears running down your face. You burned from inside, ready to unleash your whole but you held yourself back. There was no telling how Cross would react, or if you could even stomach it. You’d gone too far, you thought, as you spied his movements from the corner of your eye.

Wild backhanded tactics formed into your mind, you knew the omegan modesty and alluring scent didn’t work on him outside of his ruts, he reacted oddly to everything, every sign of submission seemed to rebuke him –_ he didn’t act like an alpha_. Perhaps he was one of those, the nurturalists, who believed omegas and alphas to be animalistic relics of the past. Never had you met an alpha nurturalist but the Templars were everything but usual.

Your scent would not affect him, nor would your downcast eyes or the revealing show of your neck. It puzzled you, and shortly after you realized it upset you – how were you supposed to act like a beta?

“Daniel.” You dropped your face inside your hands, something shook loose inside your chest when he quieted down. “Please, come.” He stood quietly for a moment but did speak some words when you pressed again.

“давай не будем… давай не будем больше ссориться.” There was no telling what he was even saying but the simple fact that the foreign words came out so genuinely broken and distraught conveyed the message well enough.

“Daniel...” It was harder than you thought not to jump at his sudden closeness. The thick scent of anger and the unnatural stink hadn’t dissipated, yet a single glance at him proved it hardly mattered. He’d already looked tired before but his red eyes alone spoke of his defeated state of mind. Perhaps it helped soften the blow of your next spoken words, “I’m sorry.” but still the wrongness of it gnawed at your insides. “I really am. I know we’re supposed to help each other. And… I only tried to distance myself and for that I apologize.”

He took in deep slow breaths, the leather creaking under him while he shifted about. You expected yet another burst of Russian to answer you but instead his knee brushed against yours. And after a long heavy bout of silence, he said, “I’m sorry too. There are a lot of things that aren’t right with me, I’m sorry—I know I hurt you, I can’t pretend that I didn’t. If I could, I would undo it all, do things much more differently. You deserved better for your first time—”

Your past lie came back like a slap to the face, harshly stinging as his voice softened even more. “I understand now you’d needed time to deal with all that’s happened and I know that I can’t say I understand all that you’re going through. I know it’s going to be tough from then on, that this isn’t ideal, none of it is but… if we could work through it together, I know we could fix it.

“I know what they say about me, about the Animus—there’s no need to lie about it. But I’ve been getting better, you don’t need to worry about that.”

It takes a minute but you do respond, “Did you rehearse that with your therapist?”

“Dr. Sung told me that I should be more open to you about my feelings and communicate my needs and wants. After apologizing. But no, she didn’t coach me.”

Yet another blow, for fuck’s sake this had backfired remarkably well. “Did she tell you anything else?”

He loudly sighed, leaned back deeper into the couch. “A few things, it was mainly about how the hormones would help us in the long run.”

“The more I learn about that woman, the less I’m sure what her job is.”

It gets the tiniest chuckle out of him, although it sounds more like a small huff. “Yeah… She also proposed that we have a session together.”

“Oh wow.” Your abrupt answer made you wince, “Wouldn’t you prefer keeping those private?”

“I’ll be honest—recently most of the sessions have been more about you than anything else. I prefer talking about people or things that I… need to improve on. If it makes you feel better she insisted that I do not pressure you into it.”

“Small blessings.” You muttered, tilting your head back to look up at the ceiling. There was so much to discuss, much more than simple talk of hormones and cycles and even more to hide. You wondered if Sung was brilliant enough to dub you as a pathological liar—hopefully you weren’t too far down that road.

“We’re sharing the bed.” He said firmly, “But the rest’s up to you.”

“I want to redecorate.” Your own words surprised you before you turned to stare at that awful Templar portrait hanging over the TV, “I hate this thing.”

“It came with the apartment, you know. I really think it ties the space together.”

The unexpected snark in his tone throws you off but not enough to prevent you from responding in kind, “Like those disgusting white leather couches? _So nouveau riche_.”

“Now you've just made this personal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some approximate and surely awful translation (VERY open to correction):
> 
> черт возьми! : For Christ's sake!  
да что с тобой такое? говорить со мной, ради всего святого!: What's the matter with you? Talk to me for God's sake!  
что ты хочешь, чтобы я сделал? я вас не понимаю! : What do you want me to do? I don’t understand you!  
заткнись... : Be quiet...  
давай не будем… давай не будем больше ссориться. : Let's not... Let's not fight anymore.


End file.
